


you're my favourite kind of night

by raggedypond



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Boys Kissing, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:55:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3124328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raggedypond/pseuds/raggedypond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very short drabble about what I assume is Francis and Charles's first kiss</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're my favourite kind of night

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from The Weekend's Earned It

"Where are you, you bastard?" Francis hissed to himself as he shifted his feet. It was burning cold, shortly after midnight in February, a dreary clear night with a cloudless sky and the cold was almost all-consuming, the kind of cold that sneaks underneath all layers of clothing and scorches your skin raw. He, of course, was not wearing a coat, so he stood under Charles's window, hands buried deep in his pockets and shivered in his exquisite linen suit. He was drunk; well, not exactly, but he'd consumed just enough alcohol to feel more reckless and stupid than usual. Francis licked his chapped, dry lips; just like the earth in summer, they were cracked and he could just barely taste blood on the tip of his tongue. He wondered where Charles was. Should he throw pebbles at his window? Up in the twins' apartment, he could see Camilla's shadow moving about, her shoulders slumped, but she seemed to be alone in the room.

He heard steps behind his back - and there he was, all dirty blonde hair and flushed cheeks. His white sweater was tied around his shoulders, half his shirt pulled out of his pants; he was, clearly, inadequate. Francis couldn't help but giggle. 

"Oh, Charles," he smiled a crooked smile. "I've been waiting for you."

"Francois, are you mad? It's freezing," he tired to say but his words were slurred and sounded nothing like it. 

Francis approached him and reached out a hand, burying his fingers in Charles's thick blonde locks. 

"You know what Julian says? Beauty is terror."

Francis's hand went all the way through Charles's hair down to his neck and rested there, 

"I had a fight with Camilla," Charles mumbled drunkenly; Francis was so close he could taste the scotch on his breath, warm and sweet on Francis's skin. 

"You terrify me, Charles," he whispered in his ear, digging his fingers into Charles's skin, slightly losing the ground under his feet; perhaps he'd had a bit too much to drink. Perhaps he was being stupid. Perhaps he shouldn't be doing it. "You know, I want - I need very few things in life to be happy."

Charles snorted, then reached out to push back a red lock from Francis's forehead; his fingers felt warm to Francis's skin. 

"I need some scotch and cigarettes, and exquisite classy neckties and- and you." He was drunk, and he was going to be so sorry morning come. 

He met Charles's eyes, red and watery, and distant. 

"You horrify me, and I should be running away from you, but here I am," and then his lips were on Charles's, his body was against his, and miraculously, Charles was kissing him back. He tasted like whisky and cigarettes, a strong, hoarse taste that wasn't unfamiliar to Francis; but this was Charles, and he tasted differently than anyone else. His tongue in Francis's mouth; his hands gripping Francis's back. Stumbling, they somehow got to the wall, and began a clash of bodies, a dance, an elegant fight in an attempt to pin each other against the hard massive brick structure, a struggle to dominate, as their lips met again and again; it was a drunken waltz. Francis didn't dare open his eyes; what if it was all a dream?

Finally, Charles broke the kiss, breathing heavily. He looked at Francis, flustered and shaky.

"This did not happen," he said and went back, leaving Francis alone, leaning against the wall.

On the following day Francis woke up to a big nasty cold. Charles came over to bring him soup and make some tea.


End file.
